Dream Catcher

The warmth of the winter sun
Coaxes me from my sleep
And the dreams of the night
Slip from my memory.

The Dream Catcher in the window
Bumps gently in the room’s wind and
Feathers fret when they remember they used to fly.
Small beads click a soft rhythm on the glass.

I strain to see if there are pieces of dreams
Caught in the web of the magic circle.
The bad dreams are supposed to be snared
And perish in the dawn of the new day.

There are remnants of one dream caught
In the webbing – a small Black Burro is
Standing on the woven threads, patiently
Waiting for me to mount him.

Other dreams of joy and friendship,
Of love and laughing, float easily through
The labyrinth, to be dreamed again perhaps,
Or maybe appear in real life.

The Black Burro fades away this dawn
But will return some night to carry me down
The parched trail to the
Sunless
Soundless
Starless
Bottom of the canyon
Where we will all meet
Beyond the world’s pretensions.

Millicent,
I so love your poems, for two related (but different reasons): their sense of shape or structure; and the beauty of individual images or lines. This one abounds in both traits. “Feathers fret when they remember they used to fly” (!) So beautiful in place, but resonating with the local environment, and the end of the poem too. We will be transposed, transfigured after death. Thank you for expressing it so beautifully.